“Félicette?” I whisper. “Do you turn on my computer in the wee hours of the night? Do you log in with my NASA password? Do you use Twitter to catfish underage kittens?” She doesn’t. She would never. But it sure looks like someone is, and that doesn’t make any sense at all. Or maybe it does. Maybe it totally does, given the weird activity from my Twitter account. Shit.
I paw at the table for my phone and text Levi. My fingers shake when I read his last texts, but I force myself to power through.
BEE: How do I get access to the complete security footage of the Discovery Building?
A minute passes. Three. Seven. I call him—no answer. I look at the clock—fifteen minutes past eleven. Does he hate me? No more than I hate myself. Is that why he’s not answering? Is he asleep? Maybe he’s not checking his phone.
Shit. I’ll email him.
How do I get access to the complete security footage of the Discovery Building? Please let me know ASAP. Something weird’s going on.
Then I have an idea, and don’t bother waiting for his reply. I slip my shoes on, grab my NASA badge with a silent prayer to Dr. Curie that it still works, and run out to the Space Center.
Something very weird’s going on. I’m 99.9 percent sure that I am right—and 43 percent sure that I am wrong.
* * *
? ? ?
I STUB MY toe on the edge of the elevator, stumbling into the second floor’s hallway with a loud, “Ow!”
Very suave, Bee. Perhaps I shouldn’t have worn sandals. Perhaps I should have stayed at home. Perhaps I’m going insane.
Whatever. I’ll go to my office, check my computer for anything weird, return home with my tail between my legs. What else do I have to do? My scientific career is over, my good name is soon to be besmirched, and I’m at once too emotionally unavailable to be with the man I love and too in love with him to deal with my own choices. I can spare twenty minutes to sleuth before I go back to browsing the Teen Drama hidden code on Netflix and wishing vegan Chunky Monkey existed.
My （former?） office looks like it always does—homey, cluttered. No sign of Félicette. I sit at my desk, log in. Sure enough, if I navigate to the Twitter page, my password seems to be saved. My heart thuds. My stomach lurches. I look around, but the building is deserted. Okay. Okay, so someone could have conceivably accessed WWMD from this computer.
And messaged the STC guy? Yikes.
But who? Rocío? No. Not my little goth. Levi? Nah. He was in bed with me every night in the past weeks, and most of the time we weren’t even sleeping. Who else, then? And why would they contact STC posing as me? To make me look bad. But why? These kinds of machinations require a degree of committed hatred that someone like me could never inspire. I’m too boring.
I drum my fingers, wondering if I’m a lunatic, when something else occurs to me. Something much, much bigger: if someone logged into my computer, they wouldn’t just have access to my stupid social media, but to BLINK’s server, too.
“Holy shit.”
I navigate to the server repository. “No way.” I click on the folder where the documents pertaining to today’s demonstration are. “Impossible. I’m crazy. No one would—” How the hell did Levi access the logs? God, I hate engineers. They always type so quickly. “Was it—here? Where the hell did he click? Ah, yes—” I open the log for the file used for Guy’s brain stimulation. The one I finalized three days ago. The one that should be locked to anyone except for me.
It was modified last night. At 1:24 a.m. By me.
Except that last night I was tossing and turning in bed.
Okay. So it was modified by someone on this computer. “Who the fuck—”
“Are you okay?”
I startle so hard, I yelp and throw my mouse across the room. It misses Guy by a few inches.
“Oh my God.” I press my hand against my mouth. “I’m sorry—you scared me and I—” I laugh into my palm, high on relief, low-key thankful I didn’t shit my pants. It was touch and go for a second. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to kill you for the second time in one day!”
He smiles, leaning against the doorframe. “Third time’s the charm.”
“Oh, God.” I press a hand against my forehead. My heart’s calming down, and I remember the last time I saw Guy. He didn’t look good. Because I gave him a seizure. “How are you?”
He gestures at himself with a self-deprecating smile. “Back to my hunky self. You don’t look too good, though.”